Fadairo Tesleem is a young Nigerian poet that writes from Ilorin, Kwara state. He is a teacher, a poetry coach and a literary critic. Tesleem is a final year student of “Kamal school of Arabic & Islamic studies” Ilorin, Kwara state. He is a member of Hill-Tip creative art foundation, Kwara state branch, also a member of “Association Of Nigerian Authors” ANA, Osun state branch.

His poems are published or forthcoming in Fiery scribe review, Pangolin review, Queer Toronto literary magazine, Arts lounge, Best of Africa, Blue Minaret, Down in the dirt, Ninshãr arts, Blue pepper, Upwrite magazine, Inverse journal & a host of others.

He tweets @Olakunle.

How I became an atheist

In my homeland        it's whoever preaches the gospel that die
      Yesterday           a pastor shouted of seeing death 
                   shimmering at him on the  alter.
&   minutes later,  curtain drew and the congregation      
was seen 
   mourning the demise 
of    their        Shepherd.
                   Not in my absence,
              did our Imaam said his last prayers on     Sajdah,  
  but who are we to smuggle a life out
 of death's raunchy hands.

Sajdah= An Islamic state of worship, where Muslims direct their face to the ground.

|| What nights are in my country ||

Where we come from,
                                                                                 Nights isn't where to close minds,
                                                                                 pillow heads and count stars.
                                                                                It is where dwellers bath in their
                                                                                sweat awaiting their end time.

Of other places, I do not know
what a night is. But here, 
It is a reminisce of grief broad-day has
dawned upon us. Night is but a  
betrayal that abhors our foes.

                                                                                    See, in my country,
                                                                                   every night is a candle night,
                                                                                   On brethren' faces, is a diluted look,
                                                                                   heartfelt feelings, life's been messy &
                                                                                   it's more grievous to be bereaved.

Here, night is the time we water our plants
at the graveside, we whisper dirges unto 'em.
Who says war is over in this land?
Every night here indicates doom.
Here, night isn't what it is elsewhere.